by Nicole Fox
“... And there is also another rumor about him looking to heist your shipment.”
I snort. “That can’t be serious. He wouldn’t be so dumb as to move against the entire council like that.”
Eitan clears his throat. “Rumor or not, we have eyes on him and have noticed he’s been increasing his numbers.”
My jaw tightens. I like this less and less.
Augustin speaks. “Mr. Lavrin, I think maybe we should put together a team to track Gino, especially during the shipment. This way there won’t be any surprises. Maybe we could come up with an alternate route that only you know about—or that only the three of us know about—until moments before we arrive at the docks. That way, Gino won’t be able to intercept,” Augustin says.
Not a bad idea. And not just for Gino, but for anyone possibly thinking of hijacking my shipment, including the bikers. They’ve been allies for a long time, since my father’s days behind this desk, but I’m still not fond of having another group involved with that much influence over the proceedings.
Once again, I’m impressed by Augustin’s sharp grasp of the situation. He has Eitan’s stamp of approval, and his suggestions so far have been sharp and actionable. Perhaps a future right-hand man in the making, when Eitan retires. “Agreed. Augustin, go ahead and start putting a team together to track Gino.”
“Yes, sir.” Augustin stands and shakes both my hand and Eitan’s before exiting the room. Eitan waits until the door is shut before looking at me again.
“What do you think?” He tilts his head slightly, awaiting my response.
“Impressive. He shows promise.” I thumb through some papers on my desk, grinding my molars. Gino still weighs heavily on my mind, that impulsive Italian bastard. “So, what do you think about Gino’s threats? Is he just running his mouth or do you think it deserves more attention?”
“I’m not sure. Right now, I think we just run business as usual. If the team picks up on anything or if Gino makes a slight misstep, then we handle it quickly,” Eitan says.
“Agreed.” I have never been one to sit idly by, but no better option seems to be presenting itself for now.
Eitan says his goodbyes and heads out, leaving me to focus on my normal tasks. The rest of the day flies by, though I do little but stare at endless rows of data in spreadsheets. Anything to avoid thoughts of Annie.
Finally, as the sun slides through the blinds hanging over my window, I decide to leave. Shutting off my computer, I make my way down to the car to head home. The ride isn’t long, yet it’s long enough for my mind to wander to Annie, and as soon as it does, my dick hardens.
Fuck.
Just the thought of the woman sets my body ablaze. The driver pulls up to the elevator entrance and I adjust myself before stepping out and heading up to the penthouse. I force myself to stay patient. Going to her right away would be giving into my desires. No matter how badly I want to fuck her senseless, the move is to wait. And wait. And wait.
After a quick shower, I change into a white shirt and gray slacks and stand in the mirror. I think, not for the first time, that I look like my father. My mother used to keep a photograph of my father in the living room when I was growing up. It’s a shot from him in his younger days—not much older than I’m now, actually—from the day he purchased his first car.
I close my eyes and picture it. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired, a confident slope to his nose. Those Lavrin eyes—piercing, stormy, proud. I open my eyes, look in the mirror, and see the same features. I see him in me. I’m his legacy.
A faint aroma of penne a la vodka drifts into my room. It’s time. Dinner. Annie. I groan as my dick begins to harden once again. That body, that innocence ... I won’t deny myself another time.
Tonight, I won’t stop myself from ripping off her dress and burying myself deep inside her.
My cell phone vibrates against the nightstand and I grab it, dreading a possible development with Gino. But when I click open the message I’m met with a picture of a pair of naked breasts. A text from a girl I used to sleep with. The phone dings again with a follow-up message, asking me to come over.
Her body is flawless, but it’s nothing to me anymore. The prize I’m after is waiting down the hall.
My fingers click against the screen as I inform the slut to lose my number—I’m done with her.
Annie awaits me.
Chapter Eleven
Annie
I can’t believe my luck. I found a small bottle of laxative pills tucked in the medicine cabinet of the bathroom attached to my quarters. I slipped one into Jimmy’s morning coffee when he wasn’t looking. It didn’t even take five minutes before he was running off to the bathroom, leaving his suit jacket draped over the chair he was sitting in ...
With the elevator keycard in the pocket.
I don’t have time to waste. One second could be the difference between making it out of here, and getting dragged back in by the suited brutes patrolling this place. If Jimmy comes back and finds me halfway out of the penthouse, there’s no telling what he’ll do, especially with the boss not around to keep him from laying his hands on me.
So I have to go now. Right now. I race across the tile barefoot and slide the keycard into the slot, smashing my finger over and over into the button while I beg the elevator to hurry the hell up. This is my chance at freedom. My chance to escape. And I need to get out of here if I want to survive. The electronic display with the floor numbers ticks up, one by one, agonizingly slowly.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” The baritone voice cuts through me like shards of glass.
Nikita.
I thought he was still away from home, gone to wherever he goes during the day. Do mob bosses have offices? I’m not sure. Not that it matters now. I turn my head over my shoulder and spot him at the far end of the hallway. He looms in the doorframe, tall and broad, a silhouette of dark power.
He starts to stride towards me.
“Hurry up, hurry up,” I mutter to the elevator as I mash the button again and again. I can hear the gears whirring as the cables guide the car up towards me, but it’s not going fast enough. I hear Nikita’s feet pounding into the marble floors as he races towards me. It’s a long hallway, but not that long.
Ding.
The doors slide open. I jump inside. My breath is coming in ragged gasps as I whirl around and frantically search for the button to close the doors. Moments pass me by, too fast, like sand falling through my fingertips no matter how hard I try to keep it cupped. He’s going to stop me, he’s going to stop me, he’s going to stop me ...
I find the “close doors” button and press it. The doors start sliding closed. I’m going to make it. I can feel my heartbeat drumming in my rib cage, a million beats per minute, a billion, I can’t breathe ...
Then Nikita’s hand thrusts between the doors.
They shudder to a stop and reverse direction, revealing him in all his dark Russian rage. His brow is furrowed, and one black lock of hair has fallen out of place over his forehead. He smooths it back as he stares at me. There are storm clouds building in his eyes. He’s angry. Very, very angry.
But even in the middle of this scary moment, where I feel like he might just kill me for this little stunt, I can’t help but notice how utterly beautiful he is.
I don’t have long to focus on his sex appeal, though, because with one step, he crosses the distance between us, wraps one strong hand against my throat, and slams me against the back elevator wall. He presses his forehead up against mine, and I can see deep into the storms swirling in his dark irises.
“You aren’t going anywhere,” he hisses.
I’m not sure whether I want to kiss him or kick him. I’m not sure which one he would prefer, either. Something tells me this man likes a little fight in his women.
The desire to keep resisting wins out. “Like hell I’m not,” I spit. I try to pry Nikita’s fingers off me, wriggling to escape his grasp, but it’s no use.
>
Keeping his hand on my throat, he spins me around and pushes me back into the penthouse. He grabs the keycard from the slot and the doors close. The elevator hums as it plunges away, without me in it. I feel like I’m watching my dog get run over by a car, and I’m just here, mere feet away, completely and utterly helpless. Nikita stands between me and the only way out. And he’s not moving anytime soon.
I reach a hand up to my throat, where Nikita’s fingers have left a painful red mark. The air-conditioned oxygen surging into my lungs is sweet, but not as sweet as a breath of fresh air outside would’ve been.
“Do you think you’re going to take me down, Annie?” he smirks.
I look down and realize I’ve fallen into an aggressive crouch. My hands are balled into fists and adrenaline courses through my veins. But Nikita’s arrogant question takes the fight right out of me. I sag, defeated. We both know that there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell that I can overpower him, take the keycard, and manage to get away before his guards arrive.
He sees the fighting spirit dissipate and smiles again coolly. “I will not punish you for trying to get away this time,” he says. “But I won’t look kindly on a second attempt. Don’t try to leave. You belong here now. This is your home.”
I snarl back, “No, it isn’t. It will never be.”
He steps closer, wary and smooth, like the jungle cat he is. I freeze as he raises a hand to gently stroke the side of my face. Up close and personal once again, the aroma of his cologne wafts into my nose. The woodsy blend suits him. And the heat radiating off his body further floods my senses. Because the dream I had last night wasn’t enough, now I have to stand this close to the sexy devil. And damn my traitorous body for responding to him. My nipples pebble under his gaze and I clench my knees together.
He looks like he wants to say something. But instead, Nikita steps back. The anger I saw rising in him is gone now. The mask of calm control has settled back in place. “Let’s eat.” The faint Russian accent on the edge of his voice sends an unusual chill down my spine.
I have no choice but to follow him out onto the porch. There’s no way I can escape right now since he has both keys, but maybe there will be an opportunity later in the night. I still have my original plan, to get Nikita drunk enough to make a mistake. But that will take some time, and some acting skills. I need to get my mind right if that route is going to work. That means getting some food in my belly for starters. And honestly, I could do with some fresh, cool air right now. My skin is sizzling and I don’t need my hormones undermining my escape plans.
The terrace is decorated in luxury once again. The spread smells delicious and my mouth waters. One thing I can’t deny is that whatever cooks Nikita employs sure are talented. I’ve never tasted food so good before.
We sit down. A staff member comes to serve us soup and bread. The bread is a whole-wheat focaccia, covered with garlic, olive oil, and generous quantities of rosemary. The inside is stuffed with creamy goat cheese.
A few silent moments go by. I refuse to look into Nikita’s eyes at first, until I remind myself that I need him to relax if I’m going to succeed in getting him drunk. That means I need to be pleasant, on my best behavior.
The server comes back to refill our wine. When he’s gone, Nikita asks, “Where’s Jimmy?”
Despite myself, I snicker as I shove a piece of bread in my mouth. Given Jimmy’s current circumstances, I’m not sure the topic of his whereabouts is proper dinner conversation, but I can’t help myself. “Crapping his brains out,” I snort.
Nikita chokes on his wine, his eyes going wide as he stares at me.
I shoot him a wicked smile. “Gave him a healthy amount of laxative with his coffee. If the jerk thinks I’m his gopher, I sure hope he learned his lesson today.”
To my surprise, Nikita laughs, a full-bellied laugh, slapping the table with his hand. “That’s how you got the keycard?”
“He barely made it down the hall. I wish I had my camera. The way he clenched his butt as he ran would’ve gone viral.”
We both laugh for a long time. It feels strange, but it’s been so long since I laughed or even smiled that I just give in to the feeling. I can hardly catch my breath and I clutch at my stomach to try to calm down.
The staff brings out the next course and I dig in. Nikita is more relaxed tonight. He asks me about my day outside of my chemical attack on his bodyguard and I huff. “Boring. I’m trapped up here. At least the weather was nice enough that I got to sit outside but there’s not even a book for me to read.”
Nikita takes a sip of his wine then places the glass down on the table. “What sort of books would you like to read?”
I swallow my pasta and wipe my mouth with the cloth napkin. “Fantasy. Or sci-fi.”
“Are you a fan of Scalzi?”
My mouth opens and closes but no words come out. Before this moment, I would’ve bet a million dollars that this man had never read any book ever, much less the books of my favorite author of all time. It seems too out of left field to be true. But his smile seems genuine, and the question is innocent enough on the surface.
I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing anything more about me, but I can’t stop myself from blurting out, “I’m a huge fan.”
Nikita smiles. The conversation that unfolds from there is like something from a different life. In another world, I would’ve thought I was on a first date that was going really well. Nikita is more well-read than I ever would have guessed. We go from topic to topic—sci-fi to robots to the ethics of cloning, on and on. I’m surprised at every turn by his wit, his charm, his panty-melting smile.
Who is this man?
***
It started as acting, but before I know it, nearly four hours have passed and I can’t believe I’m having ... fun. How is that possible?
“I’ll leave the Exforce books for you to look at. I really think you’ll like them.”
I almost thank him. Then, like a spell is suddenly lifted, I look in his eyes and realize who he is. I realize where I am. I realize that none of this is fun, none of this is funny, and I’m not free to leave.
I’m this man’s prisoner.
My gaze falls to the table and I take a deep breath. I know what I want to say. I want to tell this monster that I don’t want his books or his kindness or his maddening, flirtatious charm. I want to tell him that I want to go home, not to his library. I want to tell him that I’m not his slave and I never will be.
But I have to stick to my plan.
For tonight only, I will be the perfect date, the perfect slave. That means swallowing what I really want to say and instead picking up my wineglass, giving Nikita the brightest smile I can muster, and saying, “To Scalzi.”
He doesn’t reciprocate at first, just raises an eyebrow. I wonder if he can see the internal struggle taking place in my brain, this fight between my desire to get the hell away from him and the competing urge to let his perfect lips trace patterns over my body.
Whatever he sees in my face must satisfy him, because then he picks up his glass and clinks it against mine. “To Scalzi,” he echoes.
We both drain our drinks.
Nikita’s server comes and opens another bottle for us, pouring fresh red wine into the glasses. I go to grab mine again, but Nikita waves a hand, cutting off the flow of alcohol.
“Let’s drink,” I urge, smiling.
But Nikita shakes his head. “There will be time for that later.” He turns to the bodyguard who is standing at attention by the terrace doorway. “Luca, turn up the music.” Turning back to me, he stands up and offers a hand. “Let’s dance.”
A soft violin spills out of hidden speakers, filling the air with gentle chords and a brassy beat. Nikita pulls me reluctantly to my feet, guiding me away from the table.
Go along with the plan, I remind myself for the umpteenth time that night. Keep him happy.
Above us, the stars are out, dotting the sky. The air is crisp but warm en
ough I don’t need a shawl. Nikita wraps a hand against my lower back and pulls me in close to him. His body is solid as marble, radiating a heat that seems to seep into my bones. I shiver in spite of it—not from the temperature but from the effect this man is having on me despite my very best efforts. I feel slightly woozy as he spins me slowly across the paved terrace.
The music pulses and swoons as we revolve. My hand feels tiny in Nikita’s grasp. He’s an excellent dancer, effortlessly in control of both of us. I risk a look up and find him staring at me with a hint of a smile on his lips.
“Are you enjoying yourself, Annie?”
“Yes.” I duck my chin again to avoid his intense gaze.
“You move well. Are you a dancer?”
“No. Actually, I don’t dance much.” I bite my bottom lip. I always wanted to learn to dance. Always wanted to go to dance class after school like the other girls. But my parents couldn’t afford it.
“Well, you’re a natural.” Nikita bends closer, his breath tickling my ear. “I wonder what else you’re a natural at?”
A surge of heat zips through my body. My nipples pucker against the dress’ material and I grow wet between my legs. One sentence and this man has my body running on overdrive. He’s dangerous.
His hand on my back slips lower as we dance and when he pulls me tight against him once more, I feel his erection dig into my hip and moan. Audibly.
It’s a mistake, and instantly, we both know it.
The game I’ve been struggling to play is over. I feel like a mouse caught in the cat’s gaze. With one piercing glance, Nikita knows everything that’s been raging in my brain. He sees the fight and the desire. And he knows damn well which one is winning.
I’m not going anywhere.
His voice is soft but direct. “Do you like that, Annie?” He doesn’t blink.
I try to pull away to create more space between us, but he’s too strong. When I look up, his pupils are dilated and his jaw thrums with tension. My lips part for a moment until my gaze lands on his breast pocket. The keycard. Maybe, just maybe, there’s a chance I can salvage this situation. If we could just sit down at the table again, if I could just get him to drink a little more...